


There Are None So Blind...

by Kennel_Boy



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennel_Boy/pseuds/Kennel_Boy
Summary: Billy strikes out on his own to assassinate Bogue. Those he leaves in Rose Creek can only hope for his success, and plan against his failure.





	1. Faraday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squishy_TRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishy_TRex/gifts).



> Prompt: _Goodnight/Billy + rest of crew- 5 people who were oblivious to their relationship and the one person who knew the whole time. Up to you on who to include and the scenarios. Post movie preferably, everyone lives_
> 
> Couldn't quite make the concept work as a post-movie tale, but that's what bonus chapters are for. ;) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to hawthornetaylor for the beta!

Joshua Faraday was well into his second helping of breakfast by the time Goodnight Robicheaux made his way into the Imperial saloon. The so-called Angel of Death didn’t look as if he’d had any kind of sleep worth mentioning. He cast a restless glance over the other four members of their mismatched gang, searching for something and seeming not to find it.

Faraday offered a cheery wave. “Well, good morning, Goodnight.” 

Robicheux didn’t seem to think much of Faraday’s wit. He pulled a dishwater expression, somewhere between a grimace and sneer, then headed back out onto the street. 

Faraday shrugged. It was already getting warm out, but if Robicheux wanted to make himself heat sick running around before breakfast, wasn’t any of his concern. The way he figured, he had five days left to live, not counting this one. Might as well take advantage of free food while he was still around to enjoy it. He glanced at Vasquez, who’d claimed a seat further down the table (and seemed to have the same idea about getting a full meal while it was on offer).

“Some people are just downright rude without their beauty sleep, don’t you think?”

Vasquez rolled his eyes. “There aren’t enough nights in a lifetime to make you beautiful, _guero_. Better leave it alone.”

Faraday snorted and went back to chasing down fried eggs with swallows of beer.

Chisolm stepped in a moment later, looking slick and clean as a frog’s ass, despite being all in black with the heat and dust outside. But Faraday was already half-convinced the lawman wasn’t human anyway, just some kind of particularly self-righteous haunt come to hassle Faraday into an early grave for his (admittedly plentiful) sins. 

“Any of you seen Goodnight?”

The Comanche at the bar shrugged and went back to picking through a perfectly fine breakfast of beans and eggs like a starving man desprate to turn up some edible scrap on a maggoty beef carcass.

“He was in here a second ago,” Vasquez volunteered. “He had a look around, then went right back out.”

Chisolm’s lips thinned. “Damn,” he muttered.

That got Faraday’s attention. One might even say it drew some concern. He’d seen Chisolm put up with a good deal of hardship and surprise so far, from near-ambushes by Indians to corrupt lawmen and hired guns to balky farmers who had less interest in saving their hides than blessing out those looking to help them with the saving. And not once had the man registered complaint or serious worry of any kind, despite their - to be indelicate - frankly shit circumstances.

Until now.

“Something up?” Faraday asked, oh so casual.

Before Chisolm could respond, Goodnight was back, looking even less composed than he had on first arrival. He was at Sam’s side in a couple too-quick strides, then looked out over the room again.

“Any of you know where Billy’s got to? Scouting or some other watch? I haven’t seen him this morning, and his horse is missing from the livery.”

Chisolm nodded. “Glad you’re here, Goody,” he said, though Faraday had a strong suspicion that was pure horseshit. More than likely, he’d been looking to catch Goody alone. Especially if this had to do with Billy Rocks. Those two hadn’t been out of shouting distance of each other since Faraday had first set eyes on them back in Volcano Springs.

“I figured on getting everyone told at once,” Chisolm went on. 

Goodnight straightened up, gone tense as drawn wire. “Where’s Billy, Sam?”

“Billy’s gone after Bogue,” Chisolm said, not bothering with any kind of preamble. 

Faraday kept his attention on Goodnight. The man seemed to have rooted where he stood; he’d definitely gone a shade paler. 

“He set out before dawn.”

“You let him go?” Robicheux sounded like he’d taken a fist to the gut. There wasn’t more than a whisper of breath behind the question. “You just… let him go without a word to anyone?”

“The former sheriff already had a day’s head-start on him. There wasn’t time to take account of every opinion in the place.” Chisolm settled his hand on Goodnight’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “He was sure of what he was doing, Goody, and he’s not looking to get himself killed. If he gets to Sacremento and there’s no clear path to get at Bogue, he’ll ride back and make a stand here with us.”

For once, Robicheaux was struck dumb. And, funny as that was, the hollow, disbelieving stare he’d fixed on Chisolm was powerfully disconcerting. Like those faded-out grey eyes were looking through the man, not at him.

“Well.” Faraday stood to refill his beer. “I reckon he’s got the best chance of any of us to get at Bogue man-to-man. If we’re lucky, they’ll run into each other in the street while Billy’s got his hairpin handy.”

That seemed to shake Robicheaux out of his spell. He pulled away from Chisolm and turned toward the door. It didn’t take a fortune teller to predict where the man was headed. This time, Chisolm’s hand clamped down on Goodnight’s elbow, pulling him up short.

“Goody. You catch up to him on this kind of job, you’re more than likely to get both of you killed. You’re too well-known.”

“And you don’t know what path he’s going to take,” Vasquez pointed out. “Or which one he’ll take back. If I was going to sneak up on a man like Bogue, with all those bought guns, I wouldn’t try to be seen. You two might pass each other by and never know. Then we’re down two men for nothing.”

Robicheaux glanced between the two of them. His gaze was wild; when he spoke, he bared his teeth like an animal at bay. “To hell with all of you. I ain’t leaving him to do this alone.”

“Seems he’s the one that did the leaving,” Faraday pointed out. The glare Robicheaux shot him was pure poison. Faraday had taken far worse from men much higher in his esteem. Robicheaux had been one of those just the day before. Now? The look didn’t so much as sting. He knew how much Robicheaux’s gun was worth in a fight. Billy was for certain better off on his own.

“Goody.” Chisolm called Robicheaux’s attention back to him. Tugged him a step closer to look him in the eye. “We need you here.”

When Robicheaux let out his next breath, the last of his fire seemed to go with it, along with a couple inches off his height. 

“Fine. Fine. I hear you, Sam.” When he pulled away this time, Chisolm let him go and didn’t follow. 

Faraday snorted. It wasn’t any kind of surprise that Robicheaux had been all but crazed at the news of Billy leaving. If things came down to fighting after all, there wouldn’t be any knife-throwing Chinaman for him to hide behind. 

One more healthy swallow, and Faraday’s beer was done. Time to get to work, just in case Billy didn’t make it back. Unlike some “legends” around this place, Faraday was entirely prepared to do his own killing if he had to.


	2. Vasquez

Bernardo Vasquez left home when he was sixteen, setting out with friends to take back some of what had been stolen by the _gringos_. That wild adventure went lethally sour, sending the boys who were left racing back toward the Rio Grande and the shelter of their families. They’d licked their wounds and headed out again, of course, not so much older, freshly angry, with more personal wrongs to avenge. 

Before many years had passed, it wasn’t safe to go home. Not so much longer after that, Vasquez found he wasn’t welcome home. Instead of gratitude for his safe return, his homecomings were marked by tears of despair and judgemental silences. So did the right thing and kept riding, this time with only his stolen horse for company and his grandfather’s medallion for memory. He thought, _I’ll stay away long enough for the pot to stop boiling. Just lay quiet until I’m not worth looking for. Then I can go back and ask forgiveness._ Yet, for all his good intentions, somehow or another, he’d never managed to keep himself out of temptation’s path for long. 

And then he’d tangled with that damned ranger. Now there was no going home. Not with the blood of a _gringo_ lawman blood on his hands and a bounty of five-hundred dollars on his head. So he just kept riding. 

Until he landed in Rose Creek.

Vasquez had spent the last two days hauling, hammering, and sweating on behalf of Rose Creek. Planing boards to block windows and fortify the bunkers they would begin digging tomorrow. Sharpening stakes for barricades. Simple labor in a righteous cause. 

Helping these people felt like atonement. Not for the ranger and his “One dead Mexican is as good as another.” He’d meant it when he told Sam the _bastardo_ had it coming. 

No, this would be atonement for what he put his parents through. For his sisters and their little ones who would never know their uncle, if they were ever even told they had one. He’d broken his own family apart. God willing, his labor - or his life - might save a few dozen others.

Maybe it was having all those thoughts of home and family in his head that put him a kinder frame of mind toward Robicheaux than he might otherwise have been. Men like the seven of them - drifting, running, or wandering with no end point on the horizon - didn’t have home or family. And yet Goodnight had found some kind of brotherhood with Billy Rocks, and Billy with him, a mutual bond to hold fast to in a roving life. Even as short a time as Vasquez had known the two of them, that closeness had been obvious. 

And then Goodnight woke up one morning with his world a lonelier place, and neither of the men he’d called friends had bothered to warn him. None of them knew if Billy would succeed, if he would ride back in failure, or if he’d be killed while attempting to kill Bogue. Maybe he’d even ridden off and left them behind to save his own neck. They might all die never knowing. 

It didn’t take a sharpshooter’s eyes to see how that uncertainty had a stranglehold on Goodnight. The man walked back into town from a day’s toil drawn in on himself, shoulders hunched, his gaze either fixed on the ground or turned toward the road leading back out of the valley. 

Vasquez handed his borrowed tools back to their owner and hurried from the livery stable-turned-carpentry into the street. He caught up to Robicheaux in front of the schoolhouse.

 _“Buenas tardes.”_ He offered Goodnight a smile and a nod as he fell into step beside him. 

Goodnight grunted around the cigarette clenched between his teeth... but then seemed to rethink his lack of manners. He stopped and returned the nod.

“Evening, Vasquez. Something you needed?”

“Just wondering if we would see see you at supper. We had an empty seat last night.”

Goodnight’s brows bunched together. “Two empty seats, you mean to say.” He started walking again.

Vasquez swallowed the curse that hopped to the tip of his tongue. He’d taken one step toward trying to comfort a comrade, and put his boot right down in manure. Maybe he had been riding alone for too long.

“Hey.” He caught up again. “Succeed or fail, he’ll be back in four days. He’s a hard man, your Billy Rocks. During the fight? I’ve never seen a man move so fast. They won’t lay a hand on him.”

Goodnight blew smoke in a long, diffuse sigh. “Of course that’s what you saw. The knives. The quickdraw. It’s what they all see.” Robicheaux was still heading toward The Elysium, but his stride had slowed enough that it at least seemed he wasn’t trying to outpace Vasquez. “It’s a matter of necessity, I’ll grant. And one that’s often put Billy and me at best advantage. But I’ve ridden with Billy for ten years now, and seen him through just about every frailty a man can suffer. He can misjudge, he can stumble, and a bullet can catch him. I’ve seen it all happen.”

Epiphany came to Vasquez in a heartbeat. It wasn’t worry alone tormenting Robicheaux, or even despair, but guilt. It wasn’t just that his _compañero_ was headed into danger with no one to watch his back. Billy hadn’t trusted him to be the one to catch him if he faltered, and the “why” of that had to be eating away at him.

“You know he left as he did to keep you safe, yes?” Maybe that was true, maybe it wasn’t. The idea that any of them were “safe” at the moment was a bad sort of joke on its own. But even if it was a lie, there was no harm in a kind lie right now. There was likely to be more than enough pain to go around later.

“I know that. I don’t for a second think he’s so faithless a man to run out on me now. That ain’t the point.” Robichaeux pitched his cigarette. “Billy calls us equal partners. That’s kindness on his part. I can drum up a crowd when we need one, but I’m not much good to him otherwise. The one thing I can do for him is get between him and all the day-to-day ugliness humanity puts to him. And even if I was at his side right at this moment, that wouldn’t make me a damn bit of use to him. That’s a lot to face down right now.”

The washed-out yellow facade of the The Elysium loomed over them. Goodnight touched his hat to Vasquez. 

“This is where I take my leave for the night. I appreciate you giving me a chance to unburden myself, but I doubt I’ll make a suitable dinner companion. I’ll take my meal here.”

He started up the hotel’s front steps. Vasquez stayed with him. At Goodnight’s questioning gaze, he shrugged. “I was thinking I would eat here too,” he said, all innocence. “For the change of pace.”

Goodnight snorted. “You planning on affixing yourself to me like jumping cholla all night?”

“Just through dinner. I figure you’ve got ten years of stories to tell about you and Billy, _si_?” And he found he wasn’t asking just to distract Robicheaux; at the moment, tales of comraderie held a powerful appeal.

Robicheaux didn’t look entirely pleased by the notion, but finally sighed. “Come on, then. At least the food here’s decent. Gavin may be a whoremaster, but he had the sense to hire a good cook.”

Vasquez chuckled and followed after Robicheaux. Maybe if he could get him to open up a bit, tomorrow’s supper might have fewer empty chairs.


	3. Red Harvest

Bogue’s army approached. 

Billy Rocks had failed. 

Dozens of horses galloping across the droughted plain churned up a dust cloud that could be seen half a day’s ride away. The dust made Red Harvest’s scouting easy; a blind and deaf crone could have tracked Bogue’s men in the dark. More importantly, the dust and thunder of hooves hid Red Harvest from sight as he trailed the riders. He would need to make his way back to Rose Creek soon, to report that things would come to fighting, but it was worse than useless to return without information on the number of enemies coming and what weapons they carried. And he needed to determine if Bogue rode with his men. If the murdering thief would not leave his city, if he hid in his stronghold and threw band after band of hired killers at the mining valley for as long as it took to wear them down, then they were all in for a far more protracted battle than they had anticipated.

Red Harvest had been young when the white army had herded his people north onto the reservation. He had chafed at the notion that white men could drive his people into a pen like cattle. He had resented his emasculation as well - he had withstood the trials of manhood without a sound, but was to be forever held back from being a true Comanche warrior by the words of a treaty he never signed. 

But for all his anger and shame, the journey itself had been a revelation. He had never traveled so far in his life, and he’d marveled at the way the land revealed itself, from rock and sand to hills to green plains that went on forever. At the way the very air in his lungs changed as the days of travel stretched out one after another.

And then, at the end of it all, he had learned that he was never to journey again. Never to feel the changing land around him again. That the treaty said the Comache would be a settled people, with churches and schools. Not the mounted warriors who rode where they would and warred on whomever they pleased.

He had not stayed long on the reservation. He’d ridden away, looking for Quanah and his Antelope People, or any free Comache who would show him the path of the warrior. But the world was larger than he had ever dreamed, and before he could find his way to any of them, the last of the fighting Comanche, even the infamous Quanah, had laid down their weapons in surrender. 

He had not gone back to the reservation. Instead, he had searched for other free People, learned their ways. Sometimes in battle, sometimes not. He had not kept company with any for long. Always something had called him away, until he’d found himself on the trail of a man who spoke to him with the words of his people and promised him battle worthy of a warrior. And so his path had become stranger still, but also somehow complete.

The sight of the wagon lagging behind the riders took Red Harvest out of his thoughts and prompted a quick retreat to observe from a distance. He hadn’t expected there to be any stragglers. Bogue’s men meant only to kill, and the whole of their journey would take less than a week. There was no need to slow their travel with a supply wagon. And it had a strange look to it besides - flat, uncovered, with only a canvas tarp to protect its oddly-shaped cargo. He kept his distance, taking to whatever cover he could find until the wagon passed, then continued in more careful pursuit. This would slow his return to Rose Creek, but what they did not know could very well mean all their deaths.

Nightfall found Red Harvest creeping through the night, prairie grass itching against his belly, eyes fixed on the camp at the foot of the slope. Bogue’s men were not bothering to hide their noise or their fire. The night was warm and there was only one tent, set somewhat away from the men. A thin, white man with fine clothes and a balding head stepped out twice to speak down to the others or shout orders. So Bogue did ride with his men. Good. 

It crossed Red Harvest’s mind that he could finish the job Billy had failed. One well-placed arrow in the dark, and the battle was won before it started. But Bogue was unobliging, settling into his tent early, and there were too many men on watch to risk stealthing into the camp.

Red Harvest’s meditation on the infuriating nature of white men was interrupted by a low cry. His heart jolted against his ribs as Bogue’s second-in-command hauled Billy Rocks toward the center of camp, one hand twisted in tangled mess of Billy’s hair. Billy’s hands were tied behind his back, his bare feet hobbled, and his shirt hung from his shoulders in bloody rags. One swift kick behind the knees took Billy’s legs out from under him and left him kneeling before his captors.

Red Harvest pressed himself deeper into the concealing grass, adding Billy to the list of infuriating complications to this battle. He did not know the man well, and his people were intruders upon these shores as much as the whites. But he’d still liked Billy Rocks well enough. He knew how to use a knife properly, didn’t talk too much, and it was clear that whatever path he walked, it took him as far from his people as Red Harvest’s did from his own. Red Harvest had figured Billy would have better sense than to let himself be captured. It was disappointing to have his judgement fall so short.

The other of Bogue’s lieutenants, the one the townspeople had called “Denali”, approached. He was of a People, but a tribe Red Harvest couldn’t name. But Red Harvest knew a white man’s dog when he saw one, and in a soldier’s uniform besides. Denali walked up to Billy Rocks with his knife drawn and a smile that was all teeth. Billy was clearly to be the camp’s amusement for the night.

Red Harvest frowned. If Billy Rocks had been foolish enough to let himself be captured, time under torture might impart some wisdom. But he was already hurt; too much more of that sort of attention would make him useless for fighting later.

Red Harvest pushed his way through the grass, low and quick, edging farther out until he was on the south end of the camp with a decent view of Bogue’s sentries. He made sure he was beyond the reach of firelight by the time he stood. And Bogue’s watchmen, though they were small targets and backlit, were not beyond the reach of his bow. He only needed one arrow for each man, but sent a few more into the thrashing corpses to make it look as if it were the work of more than one warrior.

He was moving again before the bodies were discovered; he’d done his work too well in killing those two so quietly. He sent an arrow into the gut of the sentry on the east side of the camp, let him get out a yell before another arrow stuck in his throat. 

Red Harvest kept to the dark, moving cautious and unhurried, while the white men swarmed around their camp like ants, yelling about Indian attack. There was a new word mixed in with their panic; he only knew half of it, but that half was enough to risk looking back over his shoulder.

Two men had climbed the wagon and thrown the tarp back to reveal a shadowed collection of standing metal that would have been near-incomprehensible save for that word: gun.

Then, if nothing else, one thing about the device made sense - the cylinders at the front represented the muzzles of a dozen long guns. And this terrible weapon was headed for Rose Creek.

Even this realization was not enough to spur Red Harvest to foolish haste. He made his way steadily through the night, to where his horse was tethered beyond the ridge. He walked the animal until first light, and then rode north, fast as he dared, back toward the town.

He’d done well. Foreknowledge of Bogue’s gun would give them some time to alter their plans. And the “Indian attack” would occupy the minds of Bogue’s men for at least one night. Maybe more. With any luck, he had taken their attention away from Billy Rocks. 

Riding away and leaving one of their own captive tugged uncomfortably at his pride, but there was no other way. Even if he could have gotten Billy out of the camp, it would have been impossible to outrun so many horses in the night with Billy injured and Red Harvest’s horse doubly burdened. The attempt would only have gotten them both killed. The others would understand the necessity.

Except for Goodnight. Red Harvest knew he would take the news of his friend’s capture badly. There was something strange between that man and Billy. At first, Red Harvest had taken them for master and slave, as it often was when whites and non-whites traveled together. But the care he’d seen Billy take with Goodnight seemed more than duty or debt, and it puzzled him that a warrior like Billy Rocks would shield a worn-out white soldier. Red liked the mystery; whites were a confusing and dangerous people, but not usually worth thinking on very much beyond how to avoid or kill them. He hoped he would have a chance to finish puzzling the two of them out, if they all survived the fighting.


	4. Horne

The day dawned dark, clouds hanging low and red as embers at sunrise, fading to a cheerless ashen grey come morning. The first real storm of summer loomed overhead, a grey and oppressive weight over Rose Creek. Yet the thunder rattling dust from the walls of Jack Horne’s bunker came from the fall of hundreds of hoofbeats on the earth, not the hammers of heaven. 

Horne was in the foremost of the two hastily-dug-and-shored bunkers, each hiding a dozen men and a blasting detonator meant to turn the wide swath of grassy land between the town and the border of the valley into a fiery plain of retribution. Teddy Q was in the hindmost bunker, awaiting the charge they all knew was coming. That didn’t worry Horne. Teddy was lacking in experience, but not heart. He was ready to lay down his life for his neighbors, and Horne had no doubt as to his discipline. 

As for his own… 

Horne propped up the bunker’s woven roof of burlap, grass, and sticks the barest inch, just enough to watch the approach of Bogue’s army. He was willing to give himself some leeway with regard to breaking cover, if only for the sake of concern. Goodnight had been a man possessed ever since Red Harvest had returned the previous morning with news of Billy’s capture. He’d fallen to ceaselessly stalking the perimeter of the town and checking defenses until nightfall, eschewing even Sam’s company. At nightfall, he’d retreated entirely, taking what had surely been a sleepless night in the church bell tower. The knowledge that Billy had lived to regret his impulsive mission had been no balm to the man’s worries, and understandably so; there was no comfort in knowing a friend was in torment while you were helpless to rescue them. And it didn’t take a learned man to realize Bogue holding off on killing Billy could only mean he had some fresh display of inhumanity in store for his captive.

Billy’s capture also meant more misfortune than just his suffering or Goodnight’s, of that there was no doubt. Horne knew too well that every man eventually broke under torture. It was their luck that Billy had left early in the week, before their plans to defend the town had been solidified. But Billy had known about the plan to recruit the miners. He knew the numbers of the town’s defenders, and what each of Emma Cullen’s hired seven were capable of. It wasn’t nearly enough knowledge to lay their defenses wide open, thank the Lord, but it was enough to compromise them to the enemy. Whatever advantage the element of surprise had given them, it was undoubtedly less than what they’d expected they’d have.

They’d just have to fight all the harder, and trust in the Lord to guide their blades and bullets true.

The drum of hoofbeats quieted as Bogue’s men came to a halt well beyond the outskirts of the town, out of range of small arms and impossibly far away for even a sharpshooter. Yes, Sam had been right to label Bart Bogue a coward; even as the man made ready to attack, he lurked out of reach, fearing retribution he had no doubt earned several times over. God would sit in judgment of him in the next life. For the moment, however, the task fell to them to dispense justice in the present.

Movement from the center of the line. A wan, stiff fellow in a dark coat - undoubtedly Bogue from all description Jack had heard - urged his mount forward, clutching the lead rope of the horse behind him. But no, the rope wasn’t tethered to the horse, but to the neck of the man riding it. Billy Rocks. Bloodied and drooping in the saddle, his dark hair ragged and hanging over his face. His horse’s reins hung limp around the beast’s neck; Horne expected Billy’s hands were bound the saddlehorn in addition to his being leashed to Bogue’s whim like a disobedient dog. A tug on the rope forced him to steer his plodding horse with his knees, lest he be strangled or hauled from the saddle. 

Horne’s gut tightened at the sight. His pistol would be useless at this range, but he’d have a decent chance with his rifle. If the bullet didn’t drop Bogue at once, though, he’d be giving their presence away for nothing. 

Bogue began yelling, his voice high and carrying over the flat land. “Chisolm! You send someone to murder a man in the night and call me coward?” He pulled n the rope again, forcing Billy’s horse alongside his own. “You come out of there! You come out and face me.” Bogue unholstered his pistol, pointing it at Billy’s head. “Show yourself, damn you, or I’ll blow this son of a bitch’s head off right here!”

The men pressed all around Horne murmured, shifting and restless. He waved them to silence, even though his own jaw was clenched tight as a bear trap. Bogue would kill Billy anyway. And Sam as well, should he be foolish enough to come into range, but he was sure Sam knew that too. But that wasn’t Bogue’s point anyway. The people of Rose Creek would know one of their saviors stood by while another was murdered. It was just one more attempt to cow their spirits before he sent death down into their streets. 

Oh, but it was more than the cruelty of it that had Horne wrestling with his own heart, reminding himself to keep to cover and not throw away all their lives in the futile rescue of one man doomed by foolish overconfidence. He remembered too well his own helplessness, a lifetime gone now, struggling against a world fading to black with the screams of his family in his ears. He’d felt the echo of it in this town, in the fresh graves and haunted faces, the impotent anger at an enemy who seemed unassailable. He’d seen that same powerless desperation wearing Goodnight down to raw nerves as he’d worried day and night over his brother from another land. 

He wondered if Goodnight was watching Billy’s last moments from the church tower.

Across the plain, Bogue jerked Billy’s tether again in frustration. Billy fell forward across the saddle, as if overbalanced. 

It all happened in the space of two breaths. 

The flat, distant crack of a rifle. 

Bogue’s hand flying to his side as he cried out. Gun and rope both falling from his grip. 

Billy Rocks lashing out, quick as a lightning strike, to haul Bogue from his saddle. Billy, wrenching Bogue’s neck and dropping him to the grass, where he lay twitching out his last spams of life like a rat shaken to death by a fox.

And then Billy was riding hard toward Rose Creek, leaning in low over the neck of his lathered horse, reins in-hand. 

Horne dropped into position as the thunder of hooves started up again, this time mixed with gunfire. Not all of Bogue’s men were here for money - they meant to collect their wages in blood. That was their folly to regret, then.

Billy’s horse raced past, providence guiding him to avoid the hidden bunkers by inches. Jack reached for the detonator.

“I’m counting!”


	5. Emma

No matter how badly Emma had wished to lay eyes on Bogue’s marauders as soon as they set foot in the valley, no matter how she strained her vision, it was impossible to get more than a glimpse of their battle line, even from the balcony of the Imperial.

But by God, she _heard_ them coming. The pounding of hooves. The distant, ugly shouts of encouragement as Bogue’s men exhorted their fellows to murder. And then, the booming thunder of explosion that shuddered the ground so violently that she felt it through the very foundations of the building.

“Down.” She was no more experienced in death-dealing than any of the men at her side. She was no lawman, no soldier, no legend. But somehow, even that quiet word had the force of an order. Men went down on their bellies, flattened themselves behind the cover of the sandbags lined up along the balcony railing. Emma went last, eyes fixed on the empty street below.

Rage had sustained Emma through a grief that had threatened to rip her up by the roots and leave her to die by inches. It had set white-hot hooks into her bones and drawn her out into the world, seeking her instruments of vengeance. That burning ember in her chest had been her sustenance when fear and despair had whispered in her ears like desolate winds over a winter plain. She’d had to pry herself from its embrace upon her return to Rose Creek, confining it to one corner of her soul, where it smoldered, blistering and blackening everything it touched. But at least locking it away had allowed her to think clearly, to plan. She could speak to her neighbors without demanding to know from each why they had not done more, to know why she’d had to go begging - first to mercenaries, then again at home - just to coax them into saving their own lives and livelihoods. 

Now, with the panicked screaming of men and horses mixing with the echo of blasting powder, and gunshots swiftly approaching the slaughter box of the main street, she struck the lock from the cage. The fury latched itself to her anew, no cleansing inferno to burn away the fear of the moment, but a complement to it. The desire to survive and need to avenge sharpened each other to a single, merciless edge; when the first of Bogue’s men galloped into view, there was no forgiveness, no memory, no force in Christendom that could have moved Emma Cullen to pity. She pulled the trigger; he fell to the dirt.

The next riders that caught her eye came as a pair. She took aim once more, but stayed her hand in the next breath. Billy Rocks rode in the lead, clinging like a burr to the back of a flagging horse, ragged, wounded, and, for the first time since Emma had met him, unarmed. Bogue’s murdering savage rode on his heels. As the distance between them closed, the Indian lifted his axe, aiming to strike Billy from the saddle.

Anger eclipsed all else. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words with Billy Rocks in the short time she’d known him. It didn’t matter if she’d thought his mission one of foolish ego or that she found the man himself unnerving. She’d brought him here, and he’d put himself in harm’s way for Rose Creek. He was as much one of their own as any of the men fighting beside her. And Bogue’s murdering son-of-a-bitch wasn’t taking anyone else from her. 

Emma pulled the trigger. The Indian faltered as blood poured from the hole in his chest. Somehow he knew just where to find her when he looked for his killer. They locked eyes for an instant, but his defiance was no shield to a bullet. She fired again and he fell. 

“Billy!” She risked rising to her knees, let him see who it was. She waved him toward the saloon door. There was no safety anywhere in the valley, let alone the town, but at least inside he’d be out of the immediate line of fire. 

Billy dismounted, but only long enough to take the guns off the first corpse Emma had dropped. He was limping; even from her perch, Emma could see that it cost him to remount. It wasn’t until he was in the saddle again that he looked to Emma, called to her in a voice as torn and ragged as the blood-stained tatters of his clothing.

“Where’s Goodnight?”

More riders spilled onto the main and Emma took cover. When her snipers opened fire, Billy’s stolen revolvers joined in the deadly cacophony. Emma breathed a frustrated profanity between her teeth. Billy was too obvious a target on the ground. Taking the time to talk him around to sense might very well get him killed. She lifted her head for another instant.

“The church,” she called. “Be careful!” There were barricades -- _chevaux de frise_ , Robicheaux had called them -- set up all through the streets, and no guarantee that someone with quick reflexes and no sense wouldn’t take Billy for one of the enemy. 

She doubted Billy heard her caution; he’d already kicked his horse into a gallop, heading straight for the church. Or rather, for his partner. Did he give a thought to the ordeal he’d suffered to get back to Rose Creek, or how a stray bullet could bring it all to nothing but one more tragedy in this grief-stricken town? That unwavering devotion brought a sharp ache as the memories of the hardships she and Matthew had endured together surfaced. And with the memory came an inkling of intuition…

Another explosion rocked the town, shaking Emma out of the moment. It seemed Faraday might be doing his job too well. She could only hope he hadn’t immolated himself along with Bogue’s men. She turned her attention back to the fight, sighting a man wearing a Blackstone badge on the lapel of his coat. She hoped Billy Rocks made it safely to the other side of this battle, but that was all she could do for him until the fighting was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the stall, but the last two chapters - one for Sam and one for Billy & Goodnight - are in the works!


	6. Sam

The aftermath of the battle found Sam Chisolm at the furthest outskirts of Rose Creek, looking down upon the corpse of Bartholomew Bogue where it lay half-hidden in the tall grass. The man’s eyes were wide open, and his head canted at a sharp angle atop his neck. The entire effect was one of stunned confusion, as if he couldn’t contemplate just how he’d come to this end.

A large part of Bogue’s force had turned away from the fight as soon as their employer had fallen. The more bloodthirsty of the pack and the Blackstones, who prided themselves on their brutal professionalism, had ridden into Rose Creek to finish the job they’d been hired for. To a man, their bodies lay across the landscape, from the cratered stretch where they’d made their first, doomed charge, to the killing field of the town’s main street, to the very steps of fire-blackened church guarding the one road out of Rose Creek. Not one man who’d ridden into town with the intent to finish Bogue’s work had found his way back out again.

It was a complete victory that left Sam hollow as an empty grave.

It wasn’t right to say he regretted going along with Billy’s plan. One man going in unexpected, with limited information of their own plans, had been an acceptable risk to Sam’s mind. Nevermind that he’d always liked Billy, even back when he’d known the man under a different name. Bogue dying without more harm coming to innocent people could only have been justice.

Somehow, though, he hadn’t foreseen this moment. He’d been so focused on the notion of Bogue’s death that he hadn’t asked himself, could one man’s ghosts be laid to rest by the hand of another? It seemed like there should have been an easy answer there for a man who’d wedded himself to the notion of justice even before he’d come of age. Yet here he sat, watching the shiny black ants seeking the moisture from Bogue’s drying eyes, adrift and unmoored in a way he hadn’t felt since he’d left Kansas with the ashes of his mother's farm still on his boots.

Approaching hoofbeats drew Sam out of his contemplation. Faraday was headed his way, horse in a gallop, accomplices trailing behind. Up close, Sam could see the man was smoke-kissed to a degree that would have left most solemnly contemplating their mortality. Faraday was grinning wide enough to show every tooth in his head.

“Well, Sam Chisolm,” he drawled, “fancy meeting you out here. Out enjoying a noontime stroll while we’re all hard at work?”

Sam nodded back toward the distant smoke that marked the site of Faraday’s ambush. “I’m guessing there’s one less Gatling gun in the world.”

“We had to lay out some bait, but they hauled it right over the dynamite!” Faraday cackled his delight. “It’s come late to me, Sam, but I do believe I’ve found my calling in life.” He glanced down at the body among the weeds and sobered just a touch. “That Bogue? You get him?”

“Billy did.” The confession brought Sam back to the precipice of that unexpected hollowness, and the near-foreign sensation of uncertainty.

The two scorched spots where Faraday’s eyebrows had been went up in surprise.

“Well, hell. Robicheaux’s Chinaman just cost me five dollars. Expect it was worth it, though.” 

“I expect so.” Goodnight’s name brought Sam back to the moment. He jerked his head toward the town. “Let’s see how everyone’s luck held out.” 

Already, the townsfolk had begun the final steps of reclaiming their home. The injured were being lead to aid, the dead - most of them Bogue’s marauders - were being stacked into wagons, or simply dragged off to one side to get them out of the way of the living.

As they drew near the church, Sam caught sight of Vasquez being helped down the stairs by the livery man and a farmer, his left leg bound with a bloody, makeshift bandage. Sam remembered the name of neither man assisting, but both had proven to be decent shots with pistols.

Faraday urged his horse into a trot, dismounting almost before the animal came to a stop. 

“Hey now, boys,” he called out. “You didn’t let my Mexican go and get himself killed, now did you?”

Vasquez’s sigh held the weariness of the long-suffering. 

“ _Eres tan pandejo._ Of course you lived.”

Sam skirted them both and made for the ladder leading up to the bell tower. Goodnight had already abandoned his sniper’s nest and was helping Billy down the final few rungs.

“Easy now,” Goodnight cautioned as he got his feet on solid ground. “Don’t rush it, Bill. I got you.” 

Billy descended the final steps on shaking legs and leaned into Goodnight’s arms, letting his partner take his weight.

“Damned noble fool,” Goodnight murmured. He cradled Billy’s trembling and exhausted body against his own, then pressed a feather-light kiss to his dusty, blood-matted hair.

The moment of tenderness kicked fresh guilt into the disquiet of Sam’s emotions. It was no secret to him that Billy and Goodnight had taken to each other in the manner of husband and wife. Goodnight had not confided his leanings to Sam in their early days so much as he had offered them up as a weapon, a shameful disclosure that would turn Sam’s hand against him in ways his wartime allegiances had not. And when that had failed, the two had found in each other the grounds for an unexpected and unshakable confidence. 

Or so it had seemed, until Goodnight had woken to find Billy gone and learned Sam had abetted his abandonment.

Sam cleared his throat to catch Billy’s attention, then stepped closer. He did his best to ignore the glare Goodnight sent over Billy’s head, as if his lover now needed protection in Sam’s presence.

“Now, unless memory fails me, I seem to recall you saying you’d turn back if you didn’t have a clear shot at Bogue.”

Billy shrugged.

“Took longer than I thought to get that shot,” he rasped. 

The rope burns at Billy’s throat stood out raw and red against his sunburned skin. Sam had to fight down the automatic desire to bring his hands up to his own neck at the sight. 

“Good to see you made it back. Everyone here owes you.”

“They do, but that can all wait." Goodnight cut in with a tone that allowed for absolutely no argument. “Billy needs a looking over from the doc.”

Billy sighed. “Goody, I just need…”

“William Yi Robicheaux,” Goodnight snapped, “no one here asked your opinion. You just work on keeping your feet under you ‘til I can find you a bed to collapse in.” He got one shoulder under Billy’s arm and started for the door. 

Sam stepped in without a word, offering support on Billy’s other side. He’d be the to first to allow it was pure opportunism on his part, but he wasn’t inclined to be ashamed in the moment. As he’d expected, Goodnight cut him a look, but didn’t turn down the help.

“You and me, we’ll talk later,” Goodnight muttered.

“I expect we will.” 

That unsettled emptiness still lingered at Sam’s core. As he helped Billy limp out of the church and into noontime sun, however, he couldn’t escape two essential facts - Bogue was dead and his friends were alive. And whatever peace did or did not come with a deferred vengeance, at least he hadn’t ended this venture with more ghosts than he’d started with.


	7. Billy and Goodnight

Consciousness and Billy Rocks had only a passing acquaintance with each other in the days following the Battle of Rose Creek.

Billy’s last solid memory was of lying on his sickbed, teeth gritted as the town’s barrel-chested young doctor scrubbed his inflamed wounds open fresh and flushed them out a fiery antiseptic tincture. The doctor had been speaking of Thoreau, exhaustion sawing at his voice, but apparently as determined to distract Goodnight as he was to treat his patient. 

In a distant, curious way, Billy had wondered if that was a kindness on the doctor’s part or self-preservation, and then even the agony of healing hadn’t been enough to tether him to wakefulness. That Goody would look out for him was his last thought before he fell unconscious. 

Every memory after that was insubstantial as heat mirages in the desert sun.

...Red Harvest, sitting at the foot of his bed, legs folded under him, dark eyes regarding Billy with the same benevolent curiosity one might see on the face of a scholar studying a new sort of beetle in his garden. 

When he saw Billy staring back, Red Harvest tapped the sole of his foot lightly through the bedsheets and told him to go back to sleep. Billy didn’t grasp the words he used, but he was certain the Comanche had managed to make his meaning plain with only his posture and tone. He was halfway through thinking he should get Red Harvest to teach him that trick when the dark rolled over him again…

...Candles flickering on the basin stand. Goodnight and Sam, sitting at his bedside, close and solemn, their words too low to make out. A draft passed through the room, hiding their emotions in the leap and flicker of candlelight.

An icy blade stabbed through the heat eating Billy alive. He wanted to tell Goodnight he wasn’t dead, he made it back, he hadn’t died on him. But that concern was drowned out by gunfire crashing through the night. A hundred guns, firing off enough shot to shake the world. Had Bogue’s men made it to Rose Creek after all? _Had_ he died?

He must have managed some kind of sound. He might have even managed to sit up, but the world was spinning too fast for him to tell. Then Goodnight’s hand was on his brow, stinging where it pressed against the thin cuts Bogue’s Indian had made when threatening to scalp him.

“Easy now. You lay back down, darlin’.”

Billy followed the careful weight of Goody’s hand back to the pillow. It had to be all right. 

Goodnight never just ignored gunfire.

* * *

The aches and fire all over his body were no mirage, and that was how Billy knew he was for certain back in step with reality when he opened his eyes next. A shifting of shadow and the faint, hollow _whump_ of wind tugging on anchored cloth brought his attention to the window. There wasn’t any glass left to it, just a layer of overlapping burlap sacks tacked over the empty pane. Turning his head in the other direction confirmed that he was in the room Goodnight had taken for them at The Elysium, back when they’d first come into town. Goody’s chair was at his bedside still, but with no sign of Goodnight. 

Billy sat up by degrees, grimacing at the pull of scabs and stitches anchored in his skin. The stink of fever sweat in the little room was overpowering. In truth, Billy couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like such complete and utter shit, but at least he was alive. 

Billy looked down at himself, frowning. He was in a nightshirt that was too large for him and sweated through. He pushed himself slowly onto unsteady feet, thinking he’d find his clothes, then Goody.

The memory of his own knives slicing through cloth and opening bloody trails over his skin hit hard. He gritted his teeth against it and sat back down on the edge of the bed. 

There was no way what he’d been wearing had been worth salvaging after all of that. And suddenly, the room was too close, too confining. Billy took the thin blanket from the foot of the bed. Two shakey steps, then he tugged the sacking away from the window and eased himself out onto the hotel’s balcony. 

It had been thunder he’d heard in the night, not gunfire. The storm clouds hanging over the town had opened up while he’d been confined to bed, leaving high, blue sky over Rose Creek. It was easier to breathe now than it had been before he’d left, with the storm come and gone. The air was still thick and heavy, but cool breezes were passing through, and the rain had tamped down on the dust from the street.

Billy made no effort to draw attention to himself, only settled as far back from the railing as he could get, with the blanket over his knees and his back propped up against the hotel wall, and let the wind coasting down off the mountains air him out.

“God dammit, Billy.” Goodnight appeared at the ruined window; the worry lines on his face smoothed out as soon as he caught sight of Billy taking in the sun. “You disappear on me one more time, and I swear…” 

Relief stole the last of Billy’s strength as Goodnight eased himself out onto the balcony. This was what he’d ridden out for. This was what he’d been willing to die for - his man, his adored, haunted Goodnight, safe and in one piece.

“Just keeping things equal,” Billy said. His voice was still rough, his neck still sore, but it was healing. “You were gone when I woke up. Thought you might have run off with the doctor.”

“Figures you’d open your eyes the moment I needed to answer nature’s call.” Goodnight took a seat beside Billy. Without heed to permission or decorum, Billy tipped himself over and stretched out, pillowing his head on Goodnight’s thigh. 

Goodnight cleared his throat. “Billy…?”

“I spent too long thinking I might not get back to you to give a damn right now, Goody. If anyone wants to make trouble over us, they can fight me. That includes the preacher.”

Laughter, quiet but genuine, and then Goodnight relaxed beneath him.

“You the most ornery devil I ever did meet, Billy Rocks. Just what in Heaven does it take to put out the fight in you?”

“Me? I’m just a wanderer from Joseon.” Billy twitched a smile as Goodnight stroked his hair lightly. The scents of tobacco, liquor, horse, and Goodnight’s familiar musk soothed as much as the touch. It was all closeness that he might well have never had again.

“Speaking of which,” Billy went on, “I think I should take the reward money and put us both on a ship East. This barbarian country is too uncivilized for a gentleman’s son like me.”

Goodnight snorted. “Doesn’t your family want you dead?”

“Just my brother. Maybe he’s gotten over it by now.” Billy let out a breath of sheer contentment and slid his eyes shut. He still ached all over. Even Goodnight’s gentle fingers were finding barely-healed patches along his scalp. But he’d have rolled himself off the balcony before he asked Goody to stop petting him.

Turned out he didn’t have to. Goodnight’s fingers stilled all on their own a minute later.

“Why’d you do it, Billy?”

There were a dozen answers he could give to that, some glib, some evasive, some very much kinder than others. But Goodnight deserved some honesty after worrying over him all this time.

“You were breaking after that firefight, Goody.” Billy didn’t open his eyes, but he felt Goodnight tense beneath him again. “I could hear it, I could see it. I knew you weren’t going to let me take you out of here, and I couldn’t let you stay and die for Sam’s sake. So I handled things.”

“Those boys damn near handled you.” Goodnight’s voice was rough. “You should have told me you were going.”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have left. I have a hard time saying no to you.”

Goodnight sighed. “Job like that, guess I wouldn’t have been much use to you anyway.”

They’d been riding together long enough that Billy heard the “I’m not much use to you at all” buried just underneath those words.

“Knowing I had to get back to you is what got me through the worst of it, Goody.” Billy reached up to give Goodnight’s hand a careful squeeze with bruised, swollen fingers. “And you gave me an opening to get at Bogue.” Billy opened his eyes and pushed himself up on one elbow, smiling all of a sudden and still holding on to Goody’s hand.

“That was the most incredible shot I’d ever seen. Even from you.”

Goodnight scoffed, but there was a glint of pride in those blue eyes. “I was aiming for the bastard’s head. But don’t you try to tell me you didn’t have a plan.”

“I was going to let him think I was off-balance, then go for his neck,” Billy admitted. He lay back down. Goodnight didn't need to know the part of the plan that involved getting caught on purpose. “You got him to drop his gun. And the rope. Better odds that way.”

“You’d have got the son of a bitch regardless.” Goodnight began stroking his hair once more. “Don’t leave me behind again, Billy. That old haunt comes calling when you’re not around.”

“Mmm.” Best not to make promises he might not be able to keep. “How’d the others come through?”

“Well, Horne hied off back to his wilderness soon as he could. I guess civilization doesn’t agree with him much. Faraday…” Goodnight snorted a laugh. “He’s been strutting around like he’s the only cock in the hen house since he got back. Doesn’t seem like he’s too keen on moving on. I think being a local hero might agree with him. 

“Vasquez fetched a bullet to the leg, but he’s mending. Sam intends to head out once Vasquez is fit to travel. Red Harvest will be going along too, sounds like. Man’s still looking for his place in the world, from what Sam says.” Goodnight’s smile faded. “Don’t reckon Sam’ll stay a minute longer than he needs to. Doesn’t seem like he got half of what he needed out of Bogue’s death.”

Billy wished he could feel worse about Sam’s incomplete vengeance. He’d always liked Sam. But he loved Goodnight. And Goodnight alive and well trumped damn near everything else in this world.

“Guess we’d better think about what we’re going to do,” Billy mused.

“Sam’s offered us a place in his little posse, once you’re fit to sit a horse,” Goodnight said. “Can’t say I’d regret the chance to ride along with him again.”

“Not the worst idea I’ve heard.” By some miracle, Goodnight had managed to find a spot that didn’t hurt. The surprise was almost the same as relief, and Billy leaned into his touch. “Sam could probably use the distraction.”

“We could go back to our circuit too,” Goodnight went on. “Try to find a bit of normality after all this excitement.”

“It’ll be easy riding if we head south,” Billy agreed. “And pretty country.”

“Or we might stay on here,” Goodnight pointed out. “Once you put on some clothes and go greet your adoring public, they’ll probably make you mayor.”

Billy chuckled. “Always did want my own town. And more than one local hero might keep Faraday humble.”

Goodnight laughed with him, low and fond. 

“I’m just letting you know, we’ve got options.”

“We’ll think it over.” Billy groped for Goodnight’s hand again. “I’m happy where I am right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thanks so much for reading along!


End file.
